Speed Bumps
by Phx
Summary: One black car, two energetic teenage boys, one tired and cranky former Marine father. This was not going to end well. Third chapter added!
1. Chapter 1

_I wanted to write something tonight and this is what I came up with. It's short but I still hope you'll enjoy it. Special thank you to Red Hardy for taking the time to beta this :) Let me know what you think. _

_This really is just a little piece of fluff without much plot. A small snippet of one of the many 'speed bumps' I'm sure the Winchesters encoutered along the way as they grew up crossing the country in the back of a 1967 Impala._

**Speed Bumps**

John Winchester had had enough. For the past twelve hours he'd been cooped up in the car with two teenage boys who seemed determined to drive him crazy as they drove across country. Why they'd ever take to provoking the driver was beyond him, but sleep-deprived and short-tempered to begin with, the former Marine had had enough. Yanking the wheel hard towards the shoulder of the road, he slammed on the brakes and shoved the door open. "Out," he barked already halfway out of the car.

The boys hesitated a moment and the identical stunned expressions on their faces would have been hilarious if John wasn't so pissed. Then they were scrambling out their respective doors, seventeen-year-old Dean out the front passenger, thirteen-year-old Sam out the rear.

"Dad -"

"Run." John cut the boys off, not ready to hear it, he'd been listening to it enough already. "Sam," he captured his younger son's gaze and pointed in the direction they'd just come. "That way." Sam opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, God bless his sense of self-preservation, and gave a quick nod instead. He wasn't happy but he'd comply and that was good enough for John because John wasn't happy either. "Twenty minutes, then come back." The mid-day sky was overcast, the weather was cool and John knew from where they'd come; Sam was smart, sharp and wouldn't talk to strangers. It was safe.

Sam cast his brother a pleading look. Dean met the look then dropped his eyes. John almost felt bad except he knew they needed this even if they didn't know it. Young and energetic, the boys had boundless energy that would be better burned out in a good old fashioned run along side the roadway than in bouncing back and forth in the confines of a car with him. The man didn't have to say anything else, Sam started to run.

Dean's gaze was dark with disapproval but he didn't say anything, just turned and started to run in the opposite direction of his brother. "Thirty minutes, Dean." John didn't raise his voice knowing his older son could easily hear him.

The curt 'Yes, sir' cut into something deep. He knew he wasn't being fair but then again, life wasn't fair. Just ask his wife.

John leaned back against the car and switched from watching one disappearing back to the other. God, this was hard. He hated being the 'bad guy' but at the end of it all he'd hate either of his boys being dead, more. Some day they'd thank him for all this; the discipline, training… someday. Just not today.

Alternating between checking his watch and watching the increasingly dark clouds, John finally pushed away from the car and started a leisurely paced lope in the direction Sam had gone, pretty certain of where'd he meet the boy on the kid's trip back. And he wasn't disappointed. But then again, regardless of what his youngest might think, John rarely was disappointed with him. No, Sam hadn't taken to the hunt with the same undisguised fervor as his older brother but the kid had his own strengths and compensated well in his lesser areas. He just wished he understood the teen a bit better.

Sam was surprised to see John.

"Dad?" Surprised and pleased if the big grin, complete with dimples, were any indication. "What are you doing here?" He sounded only slightly winded and John noted, with pride, that his endurance was developing nicely. Dean might tease his brother about being a 'geek' but there was nothing geeky about the maturing youngster. Already John could tell the kid was going to be taller then his brother, maybe even John himself as Sam was already a mess of long limbs and growth spurts and he'd only just turned thirteen. Now all the hunter had to do was figure out how to keep some weight on the lanky teen. The boy had a metabolism any woman would envy and the thought made him grin. That'd be at least a months worth of fodder in Dean's mind.

Smothering the smile, John matched Sam's pace, his muscular legs stretching out in rhythm with his son's long colt-like ones. "Nothing." He tossed off casually, enjoying a rare moment between just the two of them.

Another brief flash of dimples was his reward.

The distance passed in amicable silence as they jogged towards the car and John let his mind wander. He remembered jogging with Mary before she'd had Dean and then afterwards, the two of them and a baby stroller. They'd never gotten the chance after Sam was born. _Mary…_

His youngest cast a sidelong glance when John's cadence faltered but didn't say anything. He didn't have to as his father could read the unspoken concern in his son's eyes as easily as he had in the boy's mother. Sam was more like Mary then he could admit some days because, even after all this time, it still just hurt too damn much.

"Hey, Dad," Sam's voice was a welcome intrusion. "Who's that?" The boy tipped his head towards the car, now only a couple of hundred feet in front of them.

John's eyes narrowed. An old pickup truck was pulled up in front of the Impala and three young guys were checking her out. Immediately the hunter stiffened, something about the strangers set off a warning.

"Stay behind me," he growled as he picked up the pace. Sam fell in line behind him. "Hey," he called out distracting the men from the car, "that's my car."

The three guys stepped back as the Winchesters approached.

One of them, a big burly guy with an anchor tattoo on one bicep and a bad comb-over, smiled and John worked hard not to grimace. The guy had 'slime-ball' written all over him. "And she sure is a purdy one, at that." Slime-ball winked at Sam and John's face darkened, suddenly wishing his son wasn't with him.

"You shouldn't be leaving something so sweet on the side of the road," a second guy added. This one was more wiry, with a thick patch of black hair and a nervous twitch as if he were in need of a fix. John stiffened but forced a Cheshire smile,

"Yes, she is. So if you don't mind-"

Slime-ball held up his hand. "Actually we do… How much for the car?"

For a moment John was too stunned to answer, Sam piped up. "She's not for sale."

The third guy, quiet until now, snorted. "Everything's for sale, _little boy_," the look he gave Sam made John's skin crawl and his fingers curled into fists, "it's just the price that needs negotiating." The most muscular of the three, this one was bald and had a horrible scar that ran down the side of his face. It was as if someone had tried to cut his throat and missed. Too bad.

John shifted slightly to draw the man's attention away from Sam; there was no more pretense of friendliness. "Not this car."

"Ah c'mon, buddy," Slime-ball, obviously the social bunny of the group, cajoled, "Don't be like that. We don't want no trouble-"

"Then leave." John was tired of screwing around. The longer he pussy-footed around with these guys, the better the chance of someone getting hurt, and he'd be damned if it was going to be Sam. The revolver was drawn and aimed at the small pock-mark on Slime-ball's forehead before the men could blink. His hand was steady. "Now."

Instantly all three men stepped back, their hands held up in supplication. "Whoa, easy, big guy…" the third man beseeched. "No harm done. We just appreciate a fine piece of ass, that's all."

John's grip tightened.

"We're leaving," the wiry guy grabbed both his buddies by the backs of their jackets and jerked them towards the pick up truck, "take it easy. We're leaving."

The hunter didn't twitch until the other men got into their truck and pulled away from the Impala, the tires squealing and kicking up gravel. The vehicle pulled a one eighty and took off in the direction John and Sam had just come from. He didn't miss the hateful look the scarred man nailed him with as he glared at the Winchesters through the back window. It promised that this wasn't over but as John slowly lowered the gun he sighed. Yes it was. The Winchesters weren't going to be staying anywhere around here tonight.

Turning to Sam, he grunted, "Get in the car."

Even as the kid moved he was thinking about his brother. "What about Dean?"

John shrugged as he slid into the driver's seat and slammed the door. "He'll be pissed he missed the action." With a flick of his wrist, the engine growled to life, he glanced over his shoulder at his son and added casually, "Thought you'd have wanted to ride shotgun…"

He waited the heartbeat it took for Sam's whole face to light up and then the kid – God how could he not love him? – lanky legs and all, was scrambling over the bench-seat and dropping down next to him.

"Well all right then." John grinned, gunned the engine and roared away from the side of the road. He could already imagine the look on Dean's face when he saw he'd been relegated to the back, but John knew he'd get a couple more peaceful miles out of it this way, as Dean tried to figure out why he was in the back and Sam just enjoyed the view from the front.

And sometimes little speed bumps like this were all that it took to get them from one place to another.

The End


	2. Chapter 2

Oddly enough this was inspired by a comment that someone made with regards to it being more difficult for Dean to receive his father's approval than Sam. I had to kinda take a little look at that through the eyes of my John. Thank you Red Hardy for beta'ing. Any mistakes are my own.

Disclaimer - If I owned them, they'd get out a lot less. So I don't, and certainly make no money from this.

**Speed Bumps 2**

John Winchester groaned as he stretched out his muscular frame, his back stiff from sitting at a picnic table, hunched over an ancient text as his teenaged sons worked off some of their energy on a warm Sunday afternoon. They were supposed to meet up with Bobby Singer today but the other hunter had gotten delayed so John had found them a motel to stay in for the night until the older man could catch up. Mostly vacant, it had a nice green belt out back with a couple of picnic tables for guests, the perfect spot for him to do a bit more research while the boys 'trained'.

"Pinned ya again!" Dean's joyful braggart had him glancing up from his book. His first-born did indeed have his younger brother sprawled face-down in the grass with one arm twisted behind him and Dean's knee pressed into the small of his back. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," Dean continued to taunt, "or should I say _slammy, slammy, slammy?_" As John continued to watch, Dean leaned forward and used his free hand to ruffle his sibling's darker hair before easing off and effortlessly pulling his brother to his feet. Dean was all grace and power, and the hunter's heart filled with pride. That boy, _young man_, he amended fondly, was a natural, excelling at anything physical John asked him to do. At the mere age of seventeen, Dean was already a force to be reckoned with; he grimaced at the irritated glare his younger son fixed his brother with – Sam could attest to that.

But the problem with sparring with a thirteen-year-old was that, although Sam was certainly no slouch himself, he still wasn't challenging Dean enough either and didn't allow the older boy a chance to really let loose or develop his skills. Constantly kicking his younger brother's butt just built false confidence and a cockiness that would get him killed.

"Shutup," came the slightly breathless reply. And it left Sam frustrated and angry, not exactly conducive to encouraging self-confidence in a budding hunter either.

"Ooh… that the best you can come up with, little man? I'm disappointed." Dean practically bounced with energy, his eyes bright and eager, as he motioned at his brother with his hands, egging him on. "C'mon, c'mon let's go again!" He stopped, laced his fingers together and stretched out his shoulders, "I'm eager to kick some Winchester butt," he grinned, having barely worked up a sweat yet. _"Again."_

_Okay, time for a little Daddy intervention. _

John marked his page before closing the book. Stripping down to his t-shirt, he left his jacket draped over the table and took pity on his younger son. "Sammy, grab a couple of bottles of water from the room…" he winked at the boy, reveling in the look of shock that quickly morphed to glee once Sam realized what his father was up to. He turned a Cheshire cat smile on his first-born, "I got this one." Dean cocked an eyebrow in mock surprise as John focused on him. "So you're ready to kick some Winchester ass, are you?"

Dean flashed him a cocky grin, "Bring it on…" his smile threatened to swallow his head, "_old man._"

The two opponents stared circling one another.

"Old man?" John goaded then noticed Sam hadn't moved yet. He gave his younger son a quick glance. "Sam? Water?" Dean took that moment to launch an offensive as the thirteen year old took off at a full run yelling over his shoulder,

"_Don't kick his ass until I get back!" _

And for the life of him, John wasn't sure which one of them Sam was talking to.

…

John loved sparring with Dean. His son was truly gifted and it made him proud how effortlessly the younger man embraced hand to hand combat, slipping between offense and defense with an ease that left his _old man_ envious. If John had only been half as good at his age –

A barely missed haymaker had the older hunter fully focused on the fight again. Damn, Dean was getting too good… but not quite good enough.

Sparring with Dean also allowed John to teach him son humility as he caught the fist and used it to bring the seventeen-year-old to the ground in a dirty maneuver John called 'the Winchester handshake'.

He grinned down at his son's astonished face. He hadn't taught his boys' that one yet.

"Holy crap, Dad? What was that?" Dean gasped as John backed off and he slowly sat up, absently rubbing at the shoulder that had taken the brunt of his fall. The awe on the kid's face had the older man grinning a bit self-consciously as he scratched at the back of his sweaty neck. Taking Dean down wasn't as easy as it used to be.

He held out his hand to pull his son back to his feet before clasping him briefly on the shoulder. "Family secret," he winked and then wiped the sweat from his brow. "Something I've been meaning to show you and Sam-" John stopped mid-word. He glanced around, noticing for the first time that the teen hadn't come back with the water yet. Dean noticed too.

"Where the hell did he go for that water?" the younger hunter grumbled, already heading towards the front of the motel where their room was, "Canada?"

John chuckled and followed, stopping only long enough to grab his coat and book, which put him just far enough behind his son that Dean rounded the corner first.

A bellowed, "HEY!" and John had closed the distance within a heartbeat, his own temper flashpoint when he saw what had Dean so riled up.

Pinned against the Impala by three men was Sam. John recognized them from a run-in the prior day. It was Slime-ball and his buddies, the guys who'd been admiring John's possessions. Either they'd been following the Winchesters, which he found unlikely, or else fate had dealt them a twisted hand.

The kid's face was pressed against the side of the car as the glint of metal threatened the soft skin of his neck, its sharp tip just beneath the ear. Slime-ball, the one holding Sam, was grinning as his two buddies flanked him on either side. The hunter furiously noted the two water bottles his son had dropped on the ground and the pained way Sam's face was squished up against the car door.

John grabbed Dean's arm yanking him to a stop as the younger man lunged, his eyes, black with fury, never strayed from the dead men menacing his son. "Let. Him. Go." The words seethed past clenched teeth as Dean's muscles corded beneath his restraint, the seventeen-year-old growled low in his throat.

"Awww, c'mon, don't be a bad sport," the knifeman cajoled, his every word burning like salt in a wound, "we just wanted to have a bit of fun with the kid… Mind you," he continued, all mock friendliness gone, "I think _we've_ got the upper hand this time." A soft click, then one of Slimey's pals, the wiry nervous guy, had a gun in his hand pointing at them.

John never went anywhere without a gun. It was his number one personal rule. Except this time. This _one_ freakin' time.

Shit.

Next to him Dean suddenly twitched oddly. Without turning his head, John glanced at his son. The younger hunter gave a minute nod, barely perceptible, and shifted his eyes briefly from Sam and then back to John.

John stiffened, he slowly let go of his son's arm. Dean had a plan.

Unsure of what the younger man had planned, he did know Dean was also unarmed, not even carrying his beloved knife when he sparred with his brother – he'd learned that lesson the hard way – but John readied to back him up anyway. It wasn't his usual position and quite possibly that might be the edge they needed as he also noticed how all three other men were fixated on him, erroneously having dismissed Dean as a threat. If only they knew… _Stupid sons'bitches._ John almost felt sorry for them but the terrified look on Sam's face smothered it. Long limbed and still growing, the teen never took well to restraint.

"We couldn't believe our good fortune," Slime-ball blabbered on as John ground his teeth waiting for Dean to make his move, "when we saw the car again. I said to Fred here," he indicated the big muscled guy with the scar, " '_Fred, you don't suppose that's that same car?' _And he knew exactly what I was talking about."

Fred grinned; it sent shivers down John's spine. "That I did," his dark eyes flickered briefly from the car to Sam. "There are just some beauties you can never forget. What was that price again?" John bristled, _anytime Dean_. Sam squirmed but a little more pressure against his neck from the knife brought blood and the teen froze –

John saw red. Dean saw redder.

Furiously the seventeen-year-old launched himself at Slime-ball, the sheer boldness of the attack shocked the man for a split second but that second was all Dean needed to yank the hand holding the knife away from his kid brother's throat, and use the momentum to lever the man's arm backward, yanking him off Sam.

John threw the book. Ancient and heavy, the hardcover hit the gunman knocking the gun out of his hand even as John slammed into the third guy, his fist connecting hard with the man's jaw. Soundlessly the guy dropped. The hunter felt no remorse.

Dean slammed Slime-ball against the car as they grappled for the knife. John kicked the wiry gunman in the chest. A satisfying crack doubled the man over and he curled forward, going down on his knees next to his unconscious buddy as the hunter twisted around to help his older son.

A breathless, "Hey!" followed by a click stopped everything.

Sam had snagged the fallen gun and now stood, feet apart in a shooter's stance, with it aimed at his attacker and although the kid trembled, his grip on the gun didn't waver. Dean shoved away from Slime-ball and moved towards his brother. The thug glared at the teen, hatred twisting his features. "Who you trying to fool, kid?" he sneered, "You ain't going to shoot anyone."

"You're right," John growled flanking Sam on his Dean-less side. A quick glance assured him the cut was superficial. "He won't," his hand closed over Sam's colder one and gave it a slight squeeze. Without hesitation, the teen released the gun. The hunter took a moment to adjust the aim and then smiled, dark and promising. "But I will."

And fired.

The bullet sizzled through the air and grazed the side of Slime-ball's temple. The man dropped without a sound.

John felt his sons' eyes on him as he slowly lowered the weapon. Two of his son's attackers were unconscious, the third was still curled forward gasping in pain; they were no longer a threat. Sam was wide eyed, his young face pale as tremors shivered his thin frame. Dean's surprise quickly morphed into approval and something akin to pride. He wondered what lesson his first-born was taking from this.

"He's not dead," he assured Sam. Dropping his coat over his son's thin frame, he frowned and ghosted fingers over the small cut on his son's neck. Dean leaned in close and John watched his face tighten briefly then relax once he realized it wasn't any worse than a shaving knick. Although John wasn't worried about the three guys anymore, he knew they still needed to pack up and move out quickly before someone reported the gunshot. However John waited another moment, his dark eyes capturing the hazel ones briefly before the kid looked away. "You okay?"

Sam nodded, his eyes now glued on the ground. John pressed, "You sure?"

Again Sam only nodded and then Dean was ushering the kid towards the motel room with a gentle tug on his arm. Once inside, Sam moved away quickly and started to toss his few belongings into a bag. John followed, frowning, disquieted by his son's continued silence. A quiet Sam was a bothered Sam and while he appreciated all the reasons why his son might still be upset, he didn't have time for this. There was never time for this.

Seeking out his older son, and hating himself for doing so the man wasn't surprised to find Dean's attention divided between rushed packing and his little brother, his gaze candid with concern. Nothing 'Sam' got by Dean… Feeling his father's eyes on him, Dean met his look and then gave a slight nod. '_I've got this'._

John felt a mixture of guilty relief and thankful appreciation knowing Dean would poke, prod, cajole, threaten, and _listen_ the truth out of his brother and wished he could be half the father Dean was… and then remembered the seventeen-year-old's half-assed _plan_ and frowned. He opened his mouth to ask Dean what the hell he'd been thinking when the sound of police sirens had him hurrying his boys out the door.

Snagging the two dropped bottles of water on the way to the car, the man wasn't surprised when Dean slid into the back with his younger brother. Sam was but the startled look on his pale face quickly morphed into a grateful flash of dimples. John swallowed hard and looked away. Sometimes he despaired about all the things he'd done wrong, but then he'd watch his boys and know he'd done at least one thing right.

With a flick of the wrist, the Impala revved to life and carried her Winchesters away.

The End


	3. Chapter 3

_Every time I think this fic is finished I hear John again. So, here it is, a third part to the journey. I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think. Thank you Red Hardy for the beta :)_

**Speed Bumps 3**

"I want to get my hair cut." Sam's quiet voice startled John. It was dark in the small motel room and he squinted against the dim light to see the pale face of his son as the teenager sat on the edge of his bed, Dean snoring lightly in the background. The only light in the room was coming from the small desk lamp John was reading by. Sam had been quiet all day, barely saying anything to either him or Dean since the run-in he'd had with those three assholes. John wasn't sure what the men had said that had shaken the kid up so badly but he had a very good idea.

"Why?" he asked, tucking down the corner of the page of the book he was reading before closing it, determined to give his budding hunter his undivided attention. Not that he had anything against Sam getting a haircut but it was usually a bone of contention between them and never something the teen actively sought out.

Sam shrugged one shoulder trying for casual. "Just 'cause."

"I thought you liked your hair long." The man watched the boy carefully noting how Sam didn't look at him but fidgeted with a rough spot on the knee of the track pants he had worn to bed. Although he preferred hair regulation short, John'd never strongly enforced it either, remembering how much Mary had loved Dean's page boy haircut when his oldest was younger. So he cut Sam slack when Sam shared the same preference. He got Dean anyway.

Another shrug.

"Sammy," John sighed the name out quietly, "is this about what happened today? 'Cause those guys were just being assholes." That made the kid smile but it was weak at best.

"Yeah, but maybe if I had short hair like Dean…" Sam's words trailed off. A hitched breath made John want to bury those three guys and he prayed that he never laid eyes on them again. No one was allowed to make one of his boys sound like this. Ever.

"Maybe what?" the man pressed gently. He ducked his head low to get a look at the dark eyes that peered up at him through a fringe of bang, _the kid did need a trim._ "That those bastards wouldn't have cornered you outside our room? Hate to break it to you, kiddo, but shorter hair wouldn't have helped."

"Yeah, but…" Sam repeated, his words petering off too quietly for even John's sensitive hearing to pick out.

"But?" A change in Dean's breathing told John his older son wasn't so oblivious to this conversation anymore and a large part of him was relieved. If he screwed up, Dean'd be there to bail him out. As usual. "I'm sorry, son, I didn't get that."

"I said," Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly, "then they wouldn't look at me like I was a girl."

John actually chuckled. He couldn't help it. "Sammy, I can assure you, no one could ever mistake you for a girl."

Sam shot him a disbelieving look and the older man sighed heavily. Okay, time to be serious. "Son-"

"Never mind," the kid shot to his feet quickly and headed for the bathroom. "Forget I ever said anything!"

John winced in preparation of a slammed door and then frowned when Sam shut it quietly, effectively cutting himself off from his family.

"He's still pretty shaken up," Dean's voice unusually soft and sleep slurred offered from the bed as the older teen slowly sat up and rubbed at his eyes. He stifled a yawn and then followed John's gaze to the closed door. "Those guys really got to him."

"Has he said anything to you?" John directed his attention back to his oldest knowing Dean was Sam's confidant. There were no illusions between them about who Sam went to first.

Now it was Dean who shrugged as he stood up and scratched idly at his bare stomach, the sweat pants he'd gone to bed in hanging low on his hips. Even at the tender age of seventeen, Dean was all lean muscle and very catlike in his movements. John flushed with pride even as his older boy shook his head. Not that John would ever ask Dean to break Sam's confidence like that anyways. There was an unspoken rule. What was shared between his boys stayed between his boys unless it involved personal safety or was something that the other boy really felt John should know. And so far, that had only happened twice.

"You know Sammy," Dean mused as he crossed the room to the small bar fridge and pulled out two beers. Yeah, the kid was underage but the day Dean had been old enough to make his first kill was the day, as far as John was concerned, he was old enough to have a beer. He gratefully took the one his son offered and popped off the top. "Talks up a storm about everything else except what's really bothering him. Then it's the waiting game." And boy could Dean call it. For all the talking and openness Sam seemed to project, he was extremely tightlipped about the things that bothered him most. He'd bottle it up inside until the bottle cracked and everything spilled out with frantic urgency.

John just hated waiting for things to get that far. The hunter knew he was part of the problem and that Sam warred with the expectations John had for him and the expectations he set for himself, worrying too much about failure and projecting his own fears into John's perceptions. Which was completely mixed up, but that was his Sammy and, in the end, it was always complicated and fraught with miscommunication. God, things had been so much easier when Sam still thought John walked on water.

Dean took a long swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing as John idly played with the label on his own bottle. "I don't think we can afford to wait on this one, Dean," the man decided. "Sam didn't do anything wrong and the longer he festers about this, the more he's going to think he did."

Holding the bottle loosely in one hand, the seventeen-year-old frowned at the door. "I dunno…" he started slowly and John almost grinned. As mothering and over attentive as his first born could be when it came to Sam and when he wasn't the one tormenting the life out of his younger sibling, the young man still hated what he coined 'chick flick' moments, regardless of how much they were needed from time to time. _He'd rather display it then say it_. John chuckled softy at the thought. He'd made a rhyme…

Dean scowled at him but didn't say anything as John got up from the table, grabbed his beer and started for the motel room door.

"I'll be outside," he said as he gave his son's shoulder a strong squeeze as he passed, "if you need me." He felt some of the tension bleed out of the young man.

"Yeah…" Dean sighed out, then offered a weak grin, "No problem." Then he straightened up, sucked in a deep breath and like a soldier being sent to the front lines, approached the bathroom door. He shot John one final, doomed look and then raised his hand and rapped his knuckles against the wood. "You got two seconds to zip it up, bro, then I'm coming in-"

John was outside the room and had the door closed before he heard Sam's reply.

------

It was almost forty-five minutes before Dean left the motel room and stood behind John as the older man sat on the step just outside the room. He'd gotten tired of standing. The younger hunter didn't say anything but his breathing was ragged and the anger rolling off him was palpable. Something tightened in John's stomach and he didn't think it was possible to hate those three bastards any more than he already did but apparently he was wrong. If what Sam had told Dean made Dean react like this, then yes, John could find a new level of hate. Just for them.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly, his long empty beer bottle held deceptively loosely in his grip.

"Those assholes," Dean seethed as he started to pace behind John. The older man slowly stood up and turned to face his son. Dean was furious. Absolutely furious. His fists were clenched in impotent rage, every muscle in his body pulled tight, his jaw clenched so hard, his teeth clicked. "Those fucking, god-damned assholes!"

John didn't say anything, just tempered his own reactions and let Dean vent.

"I'd love to reach right up their asses and yank their lungs out! And that'd still be too good for them! How dare they! How fucking dare they!" Statements, not questions. John listened quietly as Dean raved off an impressive list of even worse punishments until, after a full five minute rant of more four letter words than John even knew, the kid had to stop to take in a breath. Only then did John interrupt him.

"How's Sam?" he asked. If Dean was this upset, he could only imagine how distraught his youngest might be.

Dean paused in his ravenous quest to suck in enough air to start his new tirade and softened. It was actually amazing to watch. All the angry hardness was replaced with tormented affection as his shoulders dropped, his fists uncurled and a fond smile slackened his jaw. "He's sleeping," his voice lowered. "Poor kid. Didn't think he'd ever calm down, once I got him to start."

_Pot calling the kettle black_, John mused sadly.

"But he'll be alright," the conviction in Dean's voice made John nod and add his own strength to the cause,

"Damn straight he'll be." John wanted to ask Dean what Sam had said and was sure, given how upset his oldest had been that Dean would probably tell, but he didn't. He didn't want to breach Sam's trust in Dean and, at the end of it all, the bottom line was that no matter what it was, it was over. Sam was safe with them and that was all that mattered. John and Dean would see to that.

And the older hunter had no doubts that confiding to Dean what had happened in those few minutes between him getting cornered and his family showing up, would go a long way to helping Sam. He felt guilty that it was Dean who was sharing the weight of this instead of John himself, but at the end of the day it was probably better. Dean understood his brother in a way the kid's own father never could.

And sometimes it wasn't about the love. Sometimes it was about the understanding.

"I mean, c'mon," John slung an arm around Dean's shoulder and guided him back towards the door and a sleeping Sam, "How can he not be with such an awesome Dad and big brother looking out for him?"

Dean snorted and shook his head. He opened his mouth to say something but then thought better of it.

John laughed. Oh yeah, it was definitely about the understanding.

The End... for now, lol!!


End file.
